


These Are The Days of the Week

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Kidnapping, Psychological Torture, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know what day it is. (Set in the same verse as Good Boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are The Days of the Week

**Author's Note:**

> A little snippet I wrote for Elizabeth from our Comrade Freddie roleplay verse and just found in my sent mail.
> 
> The only mentioned romantic pairing is Kings. (Freddie/Anatoly)
> 
> TW: psychological torture, suicidal thoughts, mentions of physical and sexual abuse, mentions of kidnapping/hostage situation and brainwashing

He doesn't know what day it is.

It's driving him completely mad, that one little detail - the date, something he'd often lost track of before he was bound here in the dark and something that had never really meant anything before at all. Suddenly it means  _everything_ , it's so, so important and Anatoly still hasn't come and he has to ask Molokov if he wants to know what day it is.

And he really, really doesn't want to ask Molokov.

Because Molokov is a prick.

Actually, Molokov might just be a decent guy. His hand is heavy on his head, warmer than the cool thickness of the prison air pressing down on him. He murmurs things to him, just out of sight, to calm him down

_good boy_

_very good, comrade_

And Freddie feels like he's worth something for a startling moment, chest squeezing almost painfully, because it's so empty and there's nothing left to wring out. There can't be. He's sobbed and pissed all over himself, he's lost everything. He's screamed and cried and lashed out but he's still here, in the same position, in the same chair and the same pair of pants. Nothing has changed, not even the temperature of the air, although he feel somehow colder inside than he did however many days ago.

He doesn't know what day it is.

Unnerved and unable to breathe he stares at the wall and the ceiling and twists about, scabs splitting-cracking-oozing (he's pretty sure they're infected, at least a few of them, they hurt so goddamn much) and the chair stays still and the room is quiet and heavy and nothing, no one can help him now.

Anatoly is not coming for him, Anatoly does not love him, nobody loves him, nobody is coming for him -

He just wants to know what goddamn day it is.

Molokov says that it's been a week but he doesn't know, he doesn't know because he always says that, doesn't he? Is he imagining it? Was it yesterday that he asked, or a week ago, or a month? Time stretches on, and shrinks and implodes and Freddie isn't sure what's what, or where he is or what's happening. Sometimes he wonders if Anatoly  _really_  exists but he's afraid to ask the shark lurking in the darkness, grinning.

Who is he?

Comrade Trumper, Molokov calls him, and rubs his head and he leans into it like a lifeline. His face is streaked with layers upon layers of tears. He hasn't bathed and hasn't eaten much, is allowed water once every so often, he doesn't even know. He nods weakly, desperately, wishing he would die.

But Comrade Molokov won't kill him, because Comrade Molokov believes in him, believes he can be useful, and that he just needs a little discipline.

He doesn't think he sleeps. He must not, because it's all one long continuous nightmare until it isn't. When he gets quiet, when he repeats in monotone just exactly as Molokov wants him to, he gets a smile from sharp eyes and sharp teeth and it tears into him and there's a hand heavy on his head, bringing him down to earth.

He closes his eyes -  _privet, da, nyet, spasiba,_  one long list of foreign words the only thing he can hear, until they're not foreign anymore-

Mother Russia will take care of you, he murmurs, and his accent is thick enough to drown in. Freddie just nods, helpless, and opens his mouth on cue.

He can't breathe on his knees with his nose pressed into Molokov's stomach like this, and there are tears in his eyes, and just wants to know what day it is.

But he won't ask.

He swallows. He stays very still. He stares at the ground. Molokov grins, and rests that heavy hand on his head to drain the bad thoughts away.

"Good boy," he's praised. " _Very_  good boy."


End file.
